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Cowboy Conspiracy
Joanna Wayne
“You’re afraid of me, Wyatt Ledger …
“Afraid you might fall hard for me and that I might interfere with your burning desire to settle a score for your mother no matter who it hurts.”
“You’re reading this all wrong, Kelly. I’m just following the lawman’s code. A cop never gets personally involved with a woman he’s protecting. It makes him lose his edge. Fear has nothing to do with this.”
“Prove it.”
She stepped right in front of him, so close he could feel her breath on his bare chest. “Kiss me right now and prove you’re not afraid.” She took his hand and pressed it to her breast.
He lost it then and he kissed her hard, ravaging her lips, exploding in a rush of desire he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
About the Author
JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organization. Her debut novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.
Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is also a popular speaker at writing organizations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.
Joanna currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star State. You may write Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.
Cowboy
Conspiracy
Joanna Wayne
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Prologue
It was a country club neighborhood. Sprawling brick houses. Manicured lawns. A guard at the gate. The kind of community where people should be resting safely in their beds at 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday.
But in the Whiting home, one resident would never wake up to the smell of morning coffee—the latest Atlanta homicide to drop onto Wyatt Ledger’s overflowing plate.
Home murders were the worst, he lamented as he pulled up and stopped behind the two squad cars already parked in the driveway of a columned, two-story brick structure. A lone, bare tree stretched its creaking limbs toward the covered entry. Welcome to paradise gone brutal.
Not that murder was any more horrid or final here than in the backstreets and alleyways where so many of the city’s gang and drug-related killings went down. But a home was a person’s refuge, the haven from the outside world. Blood seemed so repulsively out of place splattered over pristine surfaces where violence had never struck before.
And home murders hit way too close to the nightmarish memories Wyatt could never lay to rest.
He turned at the squeal of brakes as a blue sedan joined the scene. A second later his partner rushed up the walk behind him, catching up just as he reached the door.
“Be nice if murders occurred during waking hours,” Alyssa said as she twisted her skirt until it hung straight over her narrow hips. Even slightly disheveled, she looked good. In any other setting, no one would guess she was as tough and smart as any homicide detective in the city.
“Didn’t you have a hot date tonight?” Wyatt asked, but his focus had already moved from Alyssa to the house’s surroundings. Lots of trees and shrubs to offer cover for a perp. An alarm-system warning was planted in the front garden. He’d have to check and see if it had gone off.
“Kyle and I went out with friends and didn’t get home until after midnight,” Alyssa said. “I was sorely tempted to ignore the phone.”
“You’d be yelling if you weren’t invited to the party.”
“Wrong. I hate crime scenes. I love arresting murdering bastards, so I forego sleep.”
“I figure we may lose a lot of sleep over this one.”
“Why?” Alyssa asked. “What do you know about the crime?”
“Probably the same as you know. Cops were summoned by a 911 call. Found a woman fatally shot. House belongs to Derrick and Kathleen Whiting.”
Wyatt opened the unlocked door and stepped inside a high-ceilinged foyer. A multifaceted crystal chandelier dripped light over a marble floor and an antique cherry credenza. Cold air blasted from the air-conditioning unit, though it was already October and in the high sixties outside.
Low voices drifted down the hallway. Wyatt’s gut tightened as he strode toward the conversation. He’d been in Homicide six years. This part of the routine never got easier.
He saw the blood first, streams of it flowing away from a body partially hidden by two uniformed officers. Wyatt knew both of the policemen—Carter and Bower. They’d worked night shifts for as long as he’d been with the Atlanta P.D.
“It’s ugly,” Carter said, stepping back for Wyatt and Alyssa to move in for a closer look. He added a few expletives to make his point.
The victim was lying facedown on the living room floor, wearing a pair of black pajamas. Her feet were bare. She’d been shot in the back of the head at close range. Two bullet entry points were clearly visible.
The wounds were enough to make most men puke. It worried Wyatt a little that he’d become so desensitized to the gore that he didn’t pitch his dinner onto the sea of off-white carpet.
“The back door had been jimmied open,” Carter said. “The TV is unplugged and pulled out from the wall. Looks as if the victim may have come downstairs and interrupted a burglary in progress.”
“Or someone meant it to look that way,” Wyatt said. “Did you check the rest of the house for other victims?”
“Yep. All clear. No one else is home. There are men’s clothes in the closet in the master bedroom, but only one side of the bed appears to have been slept in. There’s another bedroom. Looks as if it belongs to a teenage boy. Slew of baseball trophies on some cluttered shelves and a poster of the Atlanta Falcon cheerleaders on the wall. Dirty clothes piled on the floor. Bed hasn’t been slept in.”
A boy who’d come home soon to find his mother had been brutally murdered.
A surge of unwanted memories bombarded Wyatt. Events replayed in his mind in slow motion. Staring at his mother’s brutally slain body, the pain inside him so intense he’d had to fight to breathe. The panic. The fear. The smell of burning peas. To this day he couldn’t stomach the sight or smell of peas.
“Who called the police?” Alyssa asked.
“A neighbor. He said he heard what sounded like gunshots from the Whiting home, but that the alarm system hadn’t gone off. When we got here we found the back door wide open, so we came in that way and then unlocked the front door for you guys.”
“Have you talked to the neighbor?” Wyatt asked.
“We figured Homicide would want to be the first to do that,” Bower said.
The front door banged shut. Either the wind had caught it or someone had joined them. Wyatt’s hand instinctively flew to the butt of his weapon.
“Mother.”
The voice coming from the foyer was youthful, male and shaky with panic.
Wyatt and Alyssa rushed to the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked. “Where’s my mother?”
The boy looked to be twelve or thirteen, the same age Wyatt had been when his world had exploded. A man in a blue flannel robe stood beside him, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Has something happened?”
Alyssa flashed her badge. “Alyssa Lancaster, Atlanta P.D. Are you Derrick Whiting?”
“No. My name’s Culver. Andy Culver. I live across the street and a few doors down. Josh, here, was spending the night with my son Eric. He woke up and saw the squad cars in front of his house. Was there an accident?”
“There’s a problem,” Alyssa admitted. “Josh, do you know where your dad is?”
“He’s out of town on business.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Wyatt asked.
“No.”
“Any other relatives who live nearby? Grandparents or maybe an aunt?”
“My grandparents live in Peachtree City. Why? What happened to my mother?” His voice had turned husky, as if he were fighting back tears.
“Why don’t we step out on the porch while I explain the situation,” Alyssa said.
Explain? As if they were talking about the boy’s math homework instead of the end of life as he’d known it. Thankfully, Alyssa was better at talking to the family of a victim than Wyatt was, especially when they were kids.
Wyatt could handle the cold, hard facts of the crime, but he needed the sharp edges of personal boundaries to keep distracting emotions in check.
“Where’s my mother?” Josh’s voice had become almost a wail.
“I’m sorry, Josh.” Alyssa stepped toward him.
Josh broke loose from the cluster and made a run for the living area where his mother’s lifeless body lay drenched in blood. Wyatt grabbed for him as he scurried past, but Josh went in for the slide as if he were stealing home. By the time Wyatt reached him, the boy was standing over the body, his face a ghostly white.
Josh trembled, but he wasn’t crying yet. That would come later. Now he was in a state of semishock, consumed by the nightmare and ghastly images his mind wouldn’t let him accept.
“Mom’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice broke.
Alyssa slipped an arm around his shoulders as Wyatt took a position that hid the worst of the scene from the boy’s line of vision. But nothing either of them could say or do could protect Josh from the horror or the agony that would follow. No one knew that better than Wyatt.
The best Wyatt could do was to apprehend the killer and see that justice was served for Josh’s mother. That was a hell of a lot more than anyone had done for Helene Ledger.
Chapter One
Three months later
“The chief wants to see you in his office.”
Wyatt looked up at the young clerk who had just stuck her head inside his cubicle. “Did he say why?”
“No, just that he wants to see you.”
Wyatt shoved the letter he’d been sweating over into a folder and pushed his squeaky swivel chair back from a desk piled high with case files. He picked up the folder for the Whiting case. He hadn’t even finished his written report yet, but he was sure last night’s developments would be the topic of the chief’s discussion.
He wouldn’t be thrilled that Derrick Whiting would not be standing trial for the murder of his wife. But neither would he be walking the streets a free man, with insurance money in the bank and the sexy mistress in his bed.
Whiting had shot himself last night when Wyatt and Alyssa had shown up at his door, arrest warrant in hand. Fortunately, Josh was not there to witness the event. He’d moved in with his grandparents over a month ago.
Alyssa caught up with Wyatt just before he reached the chief’s door. “So you were summoned, too.”
“Yeah.”
“Think Dixon’s pissed that we couldn’t stop the sick bastard from killing himself?” she asked.
“I’m sure he’d have preferred to have the guy stand trial, but it is what it is.”
The door was open. Martin Dixon waved them both inside. He stood and moved away from his desk to welcome them. He wasn’t exactly smiling. He never did. But his eyes and stance said it all. He was glad this was over.
“Hell of a job! Both of you. I wish we could have brought Whiting in to stand trial, but I can see why he took care of his own death sentence. And if he hadn’t, the evidence you’ve collected would have guaranteed a conviction. No juror in his right mind would have let him off.”
“It’s the jurors not in their right minds I always worry about,” Alyssa said. “But thanks for the kudos.”
“The mayor called this morning,” the chief continued. “Said to tell both of you how grateful he is for the way you handled the investigation. He wanted to congratulate you himself, but he’s getting ready for a joint press conference he’s giving with me in about an hour.”
Wyatt grimaced. “You’re not going to thank us by making us spoon-feed the details to the media sharks, are you?”
“No. The mayor and I will make statements. Louis will handle the questions about the case, but I need both of you to brief him.”
“That, I can handle,” Wyatt said.
Louis was in charge of APD public relations and he had a way of feeding the media just enough to keep them happy without releasing any gratuitous details.
“Anyway, good work,” the chief said again.
“Thanks,” Wyatt said. “Just doing my job, and I’m certain the guy who ate the bullet was guilty as sin.”
Wyatt and Alyssa had eaten and slept that case for three months. The murder had been carefully planned, and almost perfectly executed to make it look like a startled burglar had committed the crime. But Derrick had made a couple of fatal errors. Most murderers did.
Thankfully, Derrick Whiting was Josh’s stepfather of just over two years and not his biological father. Josh admitted they’d never been close, though Derrick had painted a picture of perfect family harmony to his coworkers.
At least now Josh wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that his real father had killed his mother in cold blood. He wouldn’t be forced to endure the cruel taunts of schoolmates for being a murderer’s kid or have to wonder if the evil that possessed his father was buried deep in his own DNA.
“You’re both up for a promotion,” the chief said. “I’ve decided to skip a few bureaucracy hurdles and move that along.”
“Now you’re talking,” Alyssa said.
The announcement caught Wyatt totally off guard. Great for Alyssa, but so much for the letter of resignation he’d been laboring over for the past hour.
“Is this a problem for you, Wyatt?” Dixon said, obviously picking up on Wyatt’s discomfort.
“Not exactly a problem, but …” Might as well blurt this out. The decision was made. “I appreciate the promotion offer, but I’m turning in my resignation.”
The chief looked stunned. Wyatt refrained from making eye contact with Alyssa. He’d planned to tell her first. That was partner protocol, but news of the promotion took this out of his hands.
